A Cold Front
by lulusgardenfli
Summary: All Soda's daughter needs to do is memorize a stupid poem...


**_I feel like I should start off with an apology, I'm still very much trying to find Hazer's voice. This is very much a discovery piece for me. That being said, while this isn't my best, I do hope you enjoy. Thank you for letting me explore my indulgence at looking at the 3rd generation. :)_**

 ** _Warning: Some references to bullying, psuedo cutting, alcohol usage._**

* * *

"Miss. Curtis, if you devoted the same effort to memorizing your assignment as you do to sleeping in my class you wouldn't have this issue."

" _Fuck you_." The words fly out of my mouth along with any chance of not being grounded 'til I'm thirty, no make that sixty, when my parents find out.

I wish I could say that I sound cool, or at least tough, or even like a one of those 'before' teens before Maury Povich drags their ungrateful skank asses kicking and screaming in their halter-tops to boot camp where they learn all about RESPECT and the AMERICAN WAY when I tell my English teacher to fuck himself. But I don't.

My voice cracks like a vase hurled through glass. Now I know why I'm a practicing mute. A more pathetic curse never been said in the history of the world.

But he hears it. Everyone does.

Time really does move super slow when you just made a complete ass of yourself. Everything moves at a glacier pace.

Everyone is looking me, their mouths gaped open, like they ain't never heard someone swear before in their lives. Even Lizzie. I heard her mom scream that she was a worthless little bitch as the bus stopped in front of her house, so you know she's use to cussing.

But there she is. Looking dead at me, her eyes wide and her hand over her mouth. She gasps.

My mouth opens slightly. We got this guy name Fred who is this major alcoholic and is always sleeping on a park bench with a brown bag in his hand. When I was a kid I thought it was his lunch. Turns out I was right, except it was Jim Beam from Gaslite and not a ham sandwich in his bag. I don't know much about him, but he was in Vietnam, like my Dad, and my parents tried to talk to him a few times. He never wants to talk to them. I get it; sometimes you just wanna be left alone. Anyways, even when he's sleeping his mouth is always half open as if he's drinking in his dream. Right now my mouth looks like Fred's 'cept instead of trying to swallow some gin I'm trying to swallow my cuss back into my toilet mouth.

Then I remember. The toilet in the girls' bathroom is always stuffed with tampons and never flushes right. It just spews.

Seth, who carves Anarchist symbols into a desk older than my parents with his taped up protractor, looks up for a second. He gives me a bitter smile before bringing his coat back over his head.

Least I think he's smiling; this whole feeling like I swallowed a bottle of malt liquor soaked tampon ain't really doing much for my observational skills. My throat gets real tight.

I try to hold on to Seth's grin, crooked as it is, as if it's my piece of solid ground against the shit infested nauseating dizzy sea of dirty looks and wide eyed shock. I kinda have a crush on Seth. Not that I would ever tell him that.

I want to escape into the black Sharpie marker clouds I drew on top my Vans during Science. If I can't do that, maybe faint, even if my head hits against the scruff marked floor. Sure, I'll probably bleed a little, but what's a little blood? It would be better than to be frozen stupid in front of the laughing hyenas.

Mr. Lambert's mouth opens too and his words are the only ones that count.

Normally Mr. Lambert's voice is creepy as hell, a shadowy, slow creepy drawl like a dummie's echo. All I'm gonna say is that there's some little girl missing in Tulsa, the police should look at Mr. Lambert first. He's got the whole driving around the park with a widowless van labeled 'free candy' down pat. Probably tortures puppies. Cute puppies too. Like the kind they have in those vacuum cleaner commercials. Seriously, probably got some poor girl tied down in his basement right now. I bet his first name is Chester as in Chester the Molester.

Now, Chester scorches judgment like some Old Testament god, red faced and veins popping out of his neck, yelling at me to go the principal's office. NOW.

"Sorry, Mr. Lambert," I say softly. I'm not really sorry for swearing at Mr. Lambert, but I'm sorry for the consequences I'm going to be facing when my parents find out. I'm sorry that everyone is looking at me when I want nothing more than to run back to my desk and bury my head in my arms. I'm sorry most of all that Mr. Lambert is a fucking ass wipe. I'm sorry for it all.

Unfortunately for me, my soft 'sorry' comes out dry and sarcastic. To make it worse, I top the shit sundae with a yawn. Not on purpose, but I'm really, really tired.

Unlike everyone else in my family, except maybe my brother Patrick, who are super EMOTIONAL, I have a hard time expressing myself. I have an even harder time expressing myself when I don't really mean it.

My cousin Daphne is the biggest phony in the entire world, but right now I really wish I had her ability to fake it.

I look down at shoes, look at the black ripples and think about adding silver duct tape lightning bolts. Or maybe sharks. I don't know if I want to drown or float away. Either one works for me.

My apology backfires cause Mr. Lambert looks like he's gonna explode. A low muttered, 'oooh' rises from my classmates. Voni cracks up so hard he almost falls out of his desk.

I like to think that I'm tough and cool. I don't mean tough in an 'I'm gonna kick your ass' sorta way; if you saw me you'd know that I'm too small and skinny to knock over anything but a feather; but tough with thick skin and Teflon feelings. Indifferent.

But my heart mocks me as the stupid coward that I am. It's beating so fast that I wonder if I'm having a heart attack. Am I too young to get a heart attack? My cousin Paige knows all kinds of weird facts; I wish I could ask her. But she and her boyfriend on their way to Bosnia, working with refugees and war survivors. I try not to think of how much I miss her.

Not that she could help me right now.

If I did have a heart attack Mr. Lambert would get fired for sure.

I'm not about to break down and cry, not in front of Mr. Lambert, not in front of these assholes who make me count down the day to graduation like a prisoner counting the days down to her freedom. Not when I have nothing to cry about.

So I roll my eyes and shrug, force my legs to move towards Mr. Lambert and grab the slip that orders me the principal's office out of his hands, grab my backpack and pull on the zipper that always gets stuck.

"Need help there, Miss. Curtis?" Mr. Lambert asks with exaggerated friendliness, his grin looking like Chuckie's. It's funny, he's a lot more horrible looking when he's trying to be nice than when he's being his regular creepy self.

"Nah, I'm good." I'm really not _trying_ to sound sarcastic, but once again my voice betrays me.

I look up and see and hearing laughing, but they aren't laughing with me, they're laughing _at_ me. I hear Pam, the biggest bitch in my class and a pain in my ass, cackle, "girl, she's fucking nuts." Her little minions all laugh. Pam has been bothering me forever. I jam my spiral notebook in my backpack.

I doodle a lot in my notebooks, weird shit. It doesn't mean nothing, just things that I find weird or cool or sick or funny. I once drew a baby smashed between two pieces of bread, being eaten by a drooling man with sunken eyes whose thought bubble said 'yummy time for some munchies!'

I'm not a good drawer like Patrick is, but I thought my drawing was cool. I made his eyes look like zombie eyes, with blood running out of the sockets and the baby's legs and arms between his bloody and yellowed teeth. Oh yeah, I drew green drool.

Unfortunately Pam saw my drawing and for the rest of the year I became Hazer the Baby Muncher. At lunch someone threw two pieces of bread and a plastic baby doll at my head. I didn't even look up to see who threw it. The pain of having everyone laugh at me hurt so much more than plastic hitting my skull. I eat at one of the far tables, as far away from the popular kids as I can, but I know everyone was looking at me.

My teeth clenched, rage and embarrassment boiled in me. I wanted to scream, to knock over every single lunch tray, to find Pam and smash her stupid head in the gruel they call mashed potatoes. But I couldn't. Only thing I could do was pull my sleeve up take my pen and draw deep and hard into my arm.

Not enough to draw blood or nothing, I hate blood. I'm the biggest wuss on the planet. But in that second I felt like I was gonna to explode. I just needed some place to put my hurt. I ain't a cutter, but I know people do it. I have so many warped thoughts swirling through me that sometimes I just wanna be like anyone else, even if it meant tearing my skin apart.

It was either the pen into my arm or smash my lunch tray against the wall and bolt out of that school like a psycho bat out of hell. As much as I wanted to go all Carrie on their asses, I couldn't. Then they'd really all be looking at me.

I usually ate alone or with one two other people.

Afterwards a group of older girls invited me to sit with them. But I ignored them. I'm no one's fucking charity case. Besides, what the hell would I say to them? People think I'm weird cause of how I dress. Once I open my mouth, they know for sure.

I never share my drawings with anyone. Not even Paige or Patrick. They're personal.

I'm just glad Pam never saw the picture I drew of god and the devil kissing. They'd probably burn me at the stake.

As I make sure my notebook is safe in my backpack, I hear Lizzie.

"Hater's goth" she says with disgust, as if I'm not right there, as if she'd ever know what a goth is. Hell, I don't even like Marilyn Manson. He sucks chunks. I like L7, Bikini Kill, Dead Kennedys, The Lunch Bunch, a bunch of local bands and even some of my parents' stuff, like Jimi Hendrix.

We always had tons of music playing in my house growing up. Music is my everything.

Here, wearing black makes you a goth. Black isn't even my favorite color, orange is. The orange of Popeyes cartons, traffic cones and stale candy corn. These girls are molten brained zombies. If they ever met a real goth I bet they'd piss their Care Bear panties. They think I worship Satan. I don't worship anything.

I'm frozen. It ain't nothing I haven't heard before. I've been called Hater, fugly, weirdo, loser and all sorts of really creative names. My teachers either ignore it or are too busy trying to prevent some kid from burning down the school to notice or care. My parents have no idea. I don't tell them anything. Not because I'm afraid they won't believe me, just the opposite. If my parents knew what really went on with me at school they'd drive up here and beat my principal to death. Not that the thought ain't real tempting. Throw in Pam and Lizzie and I'll bring Daphne's pom poms.

But this is different. It's their eyes. Their eyes are sculpted with disgust. They hate me. No matter how many times they've mocked me I always thought that deep down if I was in trouble they would help me. Like maybe they're just playing a joke and I'm in on it. Now, I realize that if I was ever on fire they'd put it out…with their piss.

I try not to see if Rachel, who use to be my best friend in elementary school, is looking at me.

I've been miserable at school for so long but I try not to let it get to me. I never felt so alone.

That's fine. I hate them more than they could ever hate me.

I stare Lizzie down with my coldest eyes. Coldness is the only emotion I seem capable of showing.

"Don't look at me, ugly Freddy Krueger looking bitch," she glares at me.

I'm super witty. Really. A regular laugh factory. Unfortunately, my wit doesn't go any further than my brain.

"Look in the mirror, Lizard Queen" I say angrily under my breath, cringing how lame I sound. I try to keep my voice down cause I don't want her to really hear me. People don't think girls know how to beat people up, but that's wrong. Girls are vicious.

But Lizzie hears me and she knows my weak spot and like a master judo expert, her aim is deadly, "Least my Dad didn't kill anyone, Hater."

There's a low oooh in the crowd, and Mr. Lambert looks almost sorry for me. "Okay girls, let's settle down." Mr. Lambert says impatiently. I use to think Mr. Lambert was a bully. But he's worse. He's not the bully he's the fucking bystander and the bystander always sides with the bully even when they pretend they're not.

"My Dad didn't kill no one," I say in a barely audible voice. My eyes narrow. I didn't want Mr. Lambert to get the wrong impression about Dad. He was in a war, but I don't think he really hurt people. I can't picture my Dad hurting anyone. I just can't. I had to defend my Dad. Even if I was still angry at him, I had to defend him.

I try to think of a low blow to go after Lizzie, I don't give a shit that she could crush me into a million little pieces.

I don't think I'm a mean person. But maybe I am, because I mutter, "by the way, your mama was right." I mean it too and seeing Lizzie's eyes go dark, if even for a brief moment, I feel a sick satisfaction that I never felt before.

Maybe I'm really a bitch?

Girls, we're vicious.

Come on Miss. Curtis, let's get a move on," Mr. Lambert's brief look of confused sympathy is replaced with impatience. He looks at the clock like he's gonna be late to a puppy torturing party. I hate him. I fucking hate him. It's all his fault.

"Okay Chester," I mumble under my breath, but this time the god my mom believes in so much looks out for me, cause he doesn't hear me. I stick my middle finger out, but my hand is in my pocket, one more fuck you.

* * *

Despite my cheerful attitude and award winning personality, I've never been sent to the principal's office before, so the whole detention thing is new to me.

"Hazer" I mumble as I hand my detention slip to the school secretary. Oh yeah, I hardly talk and when I do, I mumble.

I guess I should be grateful that Mr. Lambert trusted me to turn myself in to the warden instead of having me be escorted down by one of the hall monitors. Some of 'em actually look like they hired them directly from the State Pen. They look like the type of guys who actually eat a baby.

"Hazel?" She said in a tired but nice enough voice.

I can't tell you how many people think my name in Hazel.

Least she didn't call me Hater.

* * *

Lizzie's words about Dad feel like turpentine and bleach burning through my insides.

I don't talk in class unless I'm forced. But I love our history teacher, Miss. Valencia. She's the only teacher that's decent. She's nice, but not in a phony way. We just finished the Vietnam War and she asked us any of us had any relatives fought in the war. I would have never raised my hand if I knew I'd be the only person who did.

Miss. Valencia came up to me and smiled and told me to thank my Dad for his service. She said that everyone in class should be grateful for men and women like my Dad who preserved America's freedom.

"Your Father's a hero, Hazer."

That stuff woulda embarrassed me, but Miss. Valencia made me feel good.

The next day Pam passed me a picture of some American soldiers pointing guns at a group of crying Vietnamese women and children. Next to the larger picture was a smaller picture of a bunch of dead, bloated bodies; women, children, even tiny babies. All dead.

"Hazer's Dad?!" She wrote in black marker.

I ran into the bathroom and dry heaved. Then I thought of those dead bodies, thought of my big brother and threw up.

I wanted to rip that pictures into a million pieces. But I can't. I know this sounds crazy but I'd feel like I'm destroying them Vietnamese people, like Patrick, all over again. I keep the picture stuffed at the bottom of my backpack. My Mom carries a cross around her neck. I got this picture.

* * *

I dig through my backpack and feel for the picture. I'm sitting on bench outside the school, waiting for my Dad to pick me up. Having him pick up from school so I don't have to ride the bus is the only good thing about the last five months.

Rachel walks past me. Rachel was my best friend in elementary school. She ain't anymore. It's weird. We didn't have a big fight or nothing like that. We're the same people we were back when we were best friends except now we aren't.

She turns around, "Hazer, are you okay?"

How the hell am I supposed to answer that? Cleary the answer is no. I fell asleep in class and then messed up my poem and then told my teacher to fuck himself.

NO I'M COMPLETELY FALLING APART EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE IS FALLING APART, I FEEL LIKE I'M BEING SUCKED INTO A WHIRLPOOL OF DARKNESS! I want to yell, but I just just stick up my thumb, "fine and dandy like sour candy, Rach."

She looks worried. "I didn't even know you swore." I can't believe that's what she took away from the afternoon.

There's a lot Rachel doesn't know about me. Just wait til she sees my drawings.

I wait for a few seconds, hoping that she'll invite me over to her house or something, but nothing.

"Lizzie and Pam are such fucking bitches," I turn away from Rachel so I won't hit her, and spit.

Rachel musta gotten used to my dirty mouth because she smiles, "yeah."

"Um, do you wanna do something over the weekend? I mean, I know you're busy." I say it quickly. Usually I'm fine being by myself or just with my family, in fact I like being by myself so much more than other people. But right now I just wanted to be have a friend again, even if Rachel and I weren't really friends no more.

I don't know why I opened up to her right now. I know she's gonna say no. Probably going to join Lizzie and Pam and make fun of me.

"Um, sure," but she gives me a smile.

She pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

"Holy shit! You smoke?!" Now it's my turn to act surprised. Like the Adam Ant song, I'm a goody two shoes, I don't drink or smoke and have no interest in doing so. But I never thought I'd see Rachel smoke.

She guards her package wearily, "just a little."

I don't want to make a big deal about it, so I shrug and play it cool, "oh that's cool."

My mother is gonna be thrilled to find that I actually have a sorta friend. Maybe they can share smokes.

* * *

My good mood disappears when I look down at my watch and bite my lip, he's late. I close my eyes and like a sonic blast, images of two nights ago hurl through me, popping against my brain vessels like tiny exploding bombs. Like napalm.

I hope he hasn't been drinking. Panic pulsates through me, my guts swirl and crash against each other, my blood goes cold.

But the weird thing is, even though my insides are grinding, my outside: my legs, my hands, even my fingers are perfectly still. I don't have a mirror with me. But even without a mirror I know my face. It's blank. It's always blank.

He's never picked me up drunk but if he is drinking I just won't get in the car with him. I'll call Mom Collect to pick us up, or Patrick. Anyone. Even Daphne.

I poke my fingers through the slats of the bench and yawn.

I got no sleep at all the last two nights.

Ever since my Dad got injured and lost his job our lives have fucking sucked. It didn't destroy our lives all at once. At first, my parents made jokes, telling us how much they loved us and that we were gonna be okay. But slowly the shine of normalcy rusted off our family.

Or maybe this is who we always were? My Dad hot tempered, Mom at her wit's end, Hawk-well he's still himself, and me, their bright star of perpetual joy. Or not.

He wasn't injured badly enough to get SSDI and now his unemployment benefits are gonna run out soon and he still hasn't found another job. I know this all because I heard my parents fight. My parents hardly ever fight but they did two nights ago.

* * *

T _he shitstorm started before Dad even got home. Dad couldn't pick me up so I had to ride the bus which is as enjoyable as a trip through hell. Mom was already home from work putting together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich._

 _I grabbed a Pop Tart, "Pop Tarts?" I dangled the silver package in front of me._

 _Mom smirked, "only the best for my family." She put her hands on my shoulders and whispered, "we got some fruit in the fridge."_

 _I looked in our fridge and we had canned fruit, the kind with tons of syrup._

 _"Aunt Cathy has organic fruit." I don't quite understand what organic means, I think something to do with bugs, but Aunt Cathy always has fresh fruit in her house. Uncle Darry and Aunt Cathy have a house that looks like something out of a fancy magazine. It's always tidy and spotless. Unlike our house. We keep things clean, but things aren't organized at all, and the furniture is kinda ratty. If I had friends, I might be embarrassed to have them over. Thank Jesus Papi I don't._

 _It's not the organic fruit though or their game room that makes me love going over there. It's not the money. I love Uncle Darry and Aunt Cathy. Tommy says his parents are strict; but I kinda like the idea of having tons of rules. It makes things so much easier to understand._

 _I love Uncle Pony, but he's kinda weird. If I was his daughter his idea of fun would probably involve taking me on a trip to the library. But Uncle Darry and Aunt Cathy are so normal. Uncle Darry doesn't talk as much as my Dad does, but that's fine, cause neither do I. No one talks as much as my parents do, except Hawk and Daphne._

 _Mom rolls her eyes, "yeah, well I have bills to pay, until then, this is what we got."_

 _She spreads strawberry jam on white bread._

 _"Is that for Hawk? He don't like strawberry jam, he likes grape." Mom should know that._

 _Mom pushes the knife into the bread, closes her eyes and counts to three. "Hazer, strawberry was on sale, not grape. If he don't like it, that's his problem."_

 _I watch her cut the sandwich, "cut it at a diagonal, he won't eat it otherwise." I know this because when both my parents worked I use to babysit Hawk after school and make his supper for him sometimes._

 _I'm really not trying to be a brat, I just want to give him something, even if it's just a lousy peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich cut at a diagonal. Even if in the end the jelly would only make his teeth rot out of his mouth._

 _Mom doesn't appreciate my Julia Child impression._

 _She bangs the knife on the plate, "you know what Hazer? I've worked all day. I'm tired. Okay?"_

 _She pushes the plate towards me, "here since you're the expert, YOU make the damn sandwich."_

 _Then she walks away and slams her door close. It shakes the house._

 _She comes out of her room five minutes later and apologizes to me. I apologize to her too. I don't like fighting with my parents._

 _I sit with her arms wrapped around me._ _"Hawk's lucky to have you," she says, rubbing her fingers against the crook of my arm. I feel, not happy, but the closest to being okay I've felt in a long time._

 _Mom fingers my hair, "you sure you don't want me fix up your hair?"_

 _Oh great, not this again. Mom is a hairdresser and she's always begging me to let her do something to tame my hair. But I'm fine with it. Hawk lets her do whatever she wants to his hair. Right now he has a green Mohawk._

 _"At least let me cut your bangs, honey. People can't see your beautiful face." I push her hand away. Beautiful face? Ha. My Mother is such a liar._

 _"Mom…" One thing for my Mother, she persistent._

 _"Okay, okay," Mom holds her hands up, getting the message, and even though I'm pissed as hell that once again Mom won't leave me alone about my hair, I give her a small smile. Then my eyes scan the top of the coffee table and my blood burns. I see the form._

 _"Hazer Curtis 9th grade course recommendation: Freshman Regular English" and my mother's signature._

 _"No," I grab the form. "I'm not doing stupid ass remedial English."_

 _Mom looks annoyed. "Hazer, your teacher recommended the class for you." I look over the form again, "Great! Just fucking great."_

 _Mom jumps up, "watch your tongue. You do not talk that way, little girl." I hate when Mom calls me that. The only consolation is that I'm a couple inches taller than she is so I can look over her head when she yells._

 _"You don't get it! You don't get it at all. Okay? They put the "R" classes all in the basement at Will Rogers. Daphne says everyone calls it the Burnout Basement and the Doofus Dungeon. Everyone makes fun of those kids. My life would be over." I'm sounding hysterical but I don't give a shit. I need Mom to know that I absolutely cannot start high school off in the Dungeon._

 _It's more emotion than I ever spoken with in forever._

 _Mom's eyes soften a bit, "Honey, it's just for a year. They can reassess your grades in the middle of the year. Maybe Daphne can tutor you?"_

 _I laugh, "What's she gonna tutor me in? Drowning a whiskey sour and making out with half the football team?!"_

 _Mom shakes her head, "Hazer," she warns. Oh yeah. My parents love Daphne. They probably wish she was their daughter; their gorgeous, popular, blonde hair, blue eyed daughter who makes them laugh. God forbid anyone says anything negative about Saint Daphne._

 _Daphne is always getting grounded by either Uncle Pony or her Mom, but it don't matter. No matter how many stunts she pulls_ _everyone loves the golden child. She told me that she never read any of the books they assigned to her all the way through, but she still got an 'A' in English. She's the type of person who can B.S. their way through life._

 _Me? No matter how hard I try, closest I'm getting to an 'A' in English is Seth's carvings._

 _Mom pauses._

 _"You're a smart girl, being in regular level classes changes nothing." Yeah, well eight years of testing prove her wrong._

 _"You know the 'R' doesn't stand for 'remedial' and it sure as hell don't stand for 'regular,' I snap._

 _"Yeah! I know, it stands for ridiculous and that's how you're acting."_

 _My temper, which I usually let simmer inside of me, feels like it's going to explode._

 _"Nice. Now you think I'm ridiculous?" I'm hysterical. I hate this. I cannot believe my parents would actually agree with Mr. Lambert that I should be in 'regular' class. How could they do this to me? Don't they know how hard everything is for me right now? I'm already a freak, why make it worse?_

 _But my parents make friends very easily, they don't get it, they don't get what it's like to be made fun of, to be ostracized._

 _Mom shakes her head, "Hazer, grow up. I didn't say you're ridiculous, I said you're acting ridiculous. You're SMART enough to know that."_

 _She says something else too, but I can't hear her. I'm already out in the drum studio Dad built for me when I was a little girl. I bang my drums._

 _I kind of blame myself for what happened next. Mom was already in a bad mood because of me, then Dad lit the fuse by drinking. She was asking him about his job search all evening, even when Hawk was in his lap, trying to watch some T.V._

 _He put his hand up, "fine and dandy, doll face, fine and dandy." Then he belched. Hawk that it was hilarious. So too did Dad._

 _Neither of my parents are shy, they both know how to get in an argument and the entire evening there as a low grade war in our living room between them. But when I went to bed I thought everything would be okay because somehow, it always is. I was wrong._

 _"Oh hell Mary!" My Dad's frustration is cut off by his slurred words. "I'm looking for a job; I spend 12 hours a day searching for a job, but you know what darlin' I'm a fifty year old man with a tenth grade education and a half-broken body who the hell is gonna hire me? You know what jobs I'm qualified for? Fry Cook at McDonalds. Fifty years old and that's it for me."_

 _My Dad sounds like he's near tears. Worst of all he sounds hopeless. I swallow the hopeless knot growing in my own throat._

 _My parents are outside in our yard, trying to keep their voices down so Hawk and me don't wake up. But I have freakishly good hearing. It's my bat ears and a late night pee trip which has me in the living room, poking my fingernails through the screen door, listening._

 _I don't hear anything for a minute and I relax, thinking that this is all over and my parents will go back to normal. Maybe they'll wake me and Hawk up, even though it's a school night and ask me to play my drums for them and Mom will call me her drummer girl and clap along to my beat, her hair swaying in the wind and I'll wonder why I ended up with frizzy, snarly hair instead of my Mom's silky, straight hair. Not that I would tell her that._

 _Hawk will mosh with Dad until he ends up falling asleep in his arms, sounding like a little chain saw. Dad, with Hawk still in his arms, will take Mom's hand and Mom will say something to make him laugh. He'll kiss the top of her head and then they'll French Kiss. A super sloppy way too much PDA kiss. I'll try my best not to gag as their wet tongues criss-cross each other over the glow of Hawk's neon hair._

 _Maybe Patrick, Casey and their kids will come over. Dad will spend time with Curt, Hawk and Cash will play in Hawk's room. Me and Patrick will sneak away from everyone and sit on the darkened porch for a few minutes, not saying anything. For those few minutes at least, I won't be the only member of my family who prefers silence and darkness to noise and light._

 _A happy, warm feeling fills me._

 _We'd be happy, all of us._

 _Did that ever happen? Were any of those scenes real? They feel so real in my mind, I can almost touch them. Can any of us be that happy? Maybe Hawk. I think it's too late for the rest of us._

 _My daydream is interrupted, by my Dad's harsh voice, "so you can just fuck off." Then I realize, the silence that I filled with daydream, my Dad filled with drinking. Turns out a happy warm feeling filled Dad too._

 _I've never heard my Dad ever swear at Mom. Never. Not in a million years, not even close. My tongue feels thick and leathery and my stomach does a flip flop. I wish I could hightail it out but my feet are like band-aid on top of skin, stuck. There's nothing to do but watch the pus bubble up from the infected cut._

 _I have to strain to hear my Dad, even when he's drunk and angry; but I got no problem hearing my Mom._

 _"Well, you better get used to saying 'WELCOME TO MCDONALDS! YOU DESERVE YOUR FUCKIN' BREAK TODAY!" Mom doesn't try to keep quiet. She goes on and I eye Hawk's room, making sure he's not hearing this shit. He's just a little boy._

 _My shoulders tense up, I don't like her talking to Dad this way._

 _That's when I hear my Dad's voice almost matching hers if not in volume, than in anger. His voice is low and mean, like a rattlesnake. He hisses. "What the hell is wrong with you?! Keep it down, you'll wake up the kids. God. Damn."_

 _Too late._

 _Mom laughs. But unlike her regular laugh it's empty. Then she lays into him._

 _"No Soda. You. Don't. Get. To. Do. This. To. Me." Her voice is a beater hitting the bass. Then her voice rushes like a snare drum, "I have been taking double shifts at the salon just to keep this family afloat, I've been playing both mother and father to these kids while you're getting drunk at Scar's, so get your damn drunk ass off your fuckin' high horse and be a fucking man." Her voice breaks on the last word._

 _Something inside me breaks as well. It's not just what they're saying to each other, but their anger. Even hidden from view, I can feel it throttle._

 _I wait for Dad to apologize. He hates when Mom cries. He's real protective of her. Come on Dad, I mentally try to reach him, say you're sorry. Please. Make it better._

 _Then I hear glass break against the side of my drum studio._

 _"Fuck you," Mom mumbles softly as she storms towards our house. For once, I have to strain to hear her._

 _I look exactly like my Mother, I wish I looked more like my Dad, but the older I get the more I look like her, except without her enormous grin. But in every other way possible, I got my Mama's mouth._

 _Even though it's not too cold outside, I feel a cold front and watch goosebumps prick my skin._

 _I rush back into my bedroom and pretend I don't see Mom taking all the car keys and putting them in her purse so Dad can't drive drunk. But it doesn't matter, cause Dad doesn't even come inside._

 _It's not the first time my Dad has gotten this drunk. I had no idea he was mean. I had no idea._

 _I can't get to sleep. Hawk is snoring loudly. I'm glad he didn't wake up. I always look out for Hawk. But Mom, she's crying. Mom cries a lot. She's wears her emotions on her sleeves. She cries watching those cancer commercials on T.V. she cries listening to Patsy Cline. But not like this. Her sobs are loud. I wish my Dad was here, he always knows what to do. I don't. I pin my pillow around my ears pressing it deeper and deeper until my head is swallowed in cotton. I think what would happen if they get a divorce. I'd want to live with my Dad, but Hawk would probably want to live with Mom, if he's given a choice. I wouldn't stand being away from Hawk. The three of us would live in our house and Dad would be out there, alone._

 _Mom finally falls asleep, or at least she stops crying, but I get no sleep all night._

 _I catch him stumbling into our house at 3:00 A.M. during another perfectly timed bathroom trip. He gave me a slurred grin and a mock salute with his left hand against his cheek._

 _"Hey, baby girl." Then he put his finger on his lips, and gives a hard blow, "shh, Stargazer, we gotta keep it down, Mama can't know I'm here." He whispers loudly as he loses his balance and grabs onto the kitchen counter._

 _"Okay." I say quietly. I didn't know what else to say. I really want my Mom._

 _"You're my sweet baby Hazer." He says this like he's reading my nametag for the first time. "My sweet baby," he says to slowly himself. Now I know he's wasted. Nobody, not even my parents, would ever describe me as being sweet._

 _Then he swallows and reaches his hand out to me, "Hazer," he says in a husky voice, "my wife don't love me no more." He looks like he's gonna disintegrate right before my eyes into a pile of boozed up ash._

 _His eyes are red and sunken. He looks just like my zombie drawing come to life._

 _I look down at my socks; I think if I look up at him I'm gonna start to cry._

* * *

The next day my Dad slept his hangover. He didn't pick me up from school.

I still didn't get any sleep the next night either.

My parents aren't perfect by a long shot, but one thing I've always been sure of is their love for us and their love for each other, now, I'm not so sure. After that, how can I be sure of anything?

I think of Lizzie's Mom calling her a bitch. What would it be like to grow up like _that_? There had to be a reason Lizzie was a psychopath.

I talked to my Dad during lunch, expecting him to be drunk or telling me that he couldn't drive me, but he sounded fine and told me he's be picking me up.

Now as the minutes pass, I'm getting scared.

Dad's truck pulls up and I slowly walk towards it. The man who gives me a grin looks nothing like the man from two nights ago. His smile is real and sober. He's shaved, showered and even the circles under his eyes are smaller and lighter. He looks good. I can smell some cologne on him.

"Hey, baby girl," Dad reaches out and gives me a hug and it was like the last two nights never even happened. The scared part in me is softened and calmed.

"Don't forget your seatbelt," he says pointing his index finger at my lap.

I look over at him, happy to have him back, "You too, buster."

He looks down at his own lap, blinks and gives me a salute, "yes, ma'am," as we click our buckles in unison. There's a bandage on his hand.

Since my Dad isn't drunk I feel that this is a good time to tell him about my detention.

"Got detention," I say a bit too casually as we end up at a stop light.

My Dad grips the steering wheel and moves his head forward a bit towards to windshield and groans. "Come on Hazer, what the hell, baby?"

He's not two nights ago angry, but he's more upset that I thought he'd be. Just wait til he finds out why.

My chest is tight. He's the reason I got no sleep the last two nights. He's half the reason I forgot my stupid poem and swore at Mr. Lambert.

But I don't tell him that. As much as I want to swear at him and really go at him, I can't. I love him.

"I told my teacher to fuck himself." I say in a small voice. My parents don't have a lot of rules, but being polite and respectful is at the top of the list.

"Haze, I don't have time for this." He's not really angry, but frustrated, like he doesn't have time for my shit. And he's right, he doesn't.

He presses down on the gas.

"Hey!" I snap. "You didn't even ask me what he did. You know I had a reason for swearing."

It was true, my Dad, even when we got in trouble would always ask for our side of the story. He still punished us if we messed up, but he's the only parent I've ever known who actually takes kids more seriously than he does adults. He sighs," okay, so what happened?" He sounds sorta pissed.

"You shouldn't be pissed at me, Dad. You got no idea what Mr. Lambert did. Maybe he tried to make the move on me like that teacher did in Seattle." The sides of my Dad's mouth twitch into a smirk.

But then I don't shut up. "Hell! He probably knocked me up. I'm probably carrying his baby right now,"

"My baayybee" I say as I pat my stomach like a drum.

"Hazer," Dad's jaw clenches, " _enough_."

But I can't help it. "Hope ya got a wire hanger in the trunk."

He shuts his eyes for a half second. "Hazer…"

I know to shut up.

Apparently daughter getting impregnated by pervy teacher is where my Dad draws the line between good and bad humor. Good to know.

I sigh, "I sorta fell asleep in class, which is real easy by the way, his class is so boring, and then we had that poem to memorize, remember? Well, I screwed it up. I mean, in front of everyone. He made some stupid comment and I told him off. That's it."

I don't tell my Dad that the reason I fell asleep in class, the reason my mind went blank and maybe even the reason I couldn't hold back my words was because he and Mom were fighting. I didn't tell Dad all the weight I put on this poem and getting a good grade. Funny, I didn't even think of the Dungeon all afternoon.

He doesn't say anything, but bites his lip. "How come you fell asleep in class?"

I look down at my shoes, "I don't know, just tired, I guess." I mumble. I drown in my black Sharpie ocean.

We park in our driveway. "He shouldn't have talked to me like that," I say with conviction. "I worked really hard on that poem."

It was true. I don't do well in school. I get low test scores because when I read something and then someone asks me a question on it, my mind goes blank. But I have a real good memory. I remember the exact shirt my Mom was wearing on some random trip to Walmart two years ago.

I'm not doing good in English, which is why Mr. Lambert recommended me for the Dungeon. But when we had to memorize a poem I thought that maybe I could do a good job with it. I thought maybe if I did a good enough job I could pull my grade from a D+ to a C and I could escape my fate. At home I'd practice before bed and I had everything memorized. But when I stood in front of my class I got as far as " _one must have a mind of winter..."_

And forgot it all. I couldn't stop seeing my Dad telling me that Mom didn't love him.

My Dad looks me in the eyes, his own eyes kind, "you work harder than anyone I know, Haze." I wonder if that's a slur against Mom, who works as many hours in the Salon as she can to bring in more money.

Then because my Dad knows what I'm thinking even without me saying anything, "Hazer, you're a smart girl. Okay? I wish you would realize just how smart you are."

"Sure you don't mean smart ass?" I say sarcastically.

Dad laughs. "See? You got some good comebacks, Haze."

I shrug. _That_ was good?!

I don't want to think about school or Mr. Lambert anymore.

"How are you?" I ask my Dad.

My Dad's mouth opens slightly, like my own, like Fred's. "You want it straight?"

I nod. "No chaser."

He raises his eyebrows a bit, but goes on.

"My unemployment is ending on Monday. Things are going to be tight until I get a job, even then, things are gonna be real tight." He says each word robotically. "But, you and your brother have nothing to worry about okay? We're going to be okay." He tries to sound cheery, but I know the truth. After all, I'm a smart girl.

I'm about to open the car door when I feel his hand on my shoulder. "Hazer, you know you can talk to us about anything right?"

I nod.

He's trying to grin, but his face is weary, "I miss our talks, Haze."

I do too, but life was simpler back then. I couldn't tell him about how bad things were for me at school, not with everything he was going through. Besides, sometimes I just like keeping things to myself.

Dad sighs and lets me go.

* * *

Both Mom and Hawk are home. I thought Mom would be a work and Hawk at a friend's house. Hawk has way more friends than I do even though he's a little kid. Hawk runs and gives me a hug. Here's the thing about Hawk.

He's the best.

Ever.

I love him so damn much. I was eight and half when he was born and he's been my baby ever since. He reminds me of Donnie from _The Wild Thornberries_ , he's that crazy. He's always on a sugar high even when we don't have any desserts. He's always been like that. He cracked my Mom's ribs before he was even born.

When he was a toddler, he use to run after me, with Mom in hot pursuit of him, if I left our house without giving him a goodbye hug.

"I need my hug Hazer!" His voice even as a little kid sounded like an old man with a cold and that would crack me up even as his little dingaling was out in the wind. It use to embarrass me, but Hawk, he's never embarrassed. He's just Hawk. That's why I love him. There's nothing fake or phony or kiss ass about him.

I love Patrick and my parents, especially my Dad, but Hawk is everything.

I press my fingers on his Mohawk.

Hawk runs to Dad and barrels into him. My Dad winces as Hawk head butts against his thigh. That's where he got injured. He has a bunch of old scarring on his thigh, but I don't think it's from the war, tell you the truth, I'm not sure what happened to his thigh. But anyway, his injury got aggravated.

"Slow down Hot rod," my Dad tries to smile, but I can tell he's in a lot of pain.

"Where's Mom?" Dad looks worried.

Mom steps in from the back yard, "here I am," she says tiredly. She has a full trash bag in her hand.

"You wanna wrestle, wrestle, wrestle!?" Hawk asks Dad, jumping up and down like he's Hulk Hogan. All of us except Hawk knows what the answer is. Dad hasn't been able to roughhouse with Hawk like he used to.

Dad gives Hawk a sad smile, "maybe later, hon." He can't disappoint Hawk. He walks towards Mom and I notice a slight limp in his walk. Did he have that before?

"Let me take care of that, honey," his voice is real gentle. He holds out his hand and for a second my Mom hesitates before giving him her trash.

"I'm _so_ sorry," my Dad whispers as he leans towards her.

Mom's lips waver, but she doesn't cry, in fact she looks the kind of tough I wish I could be, "I know. It's gonna be okay, Soda." My Dad looks like he's gonna cry, but not from sadness, but joy. I think my Mom is still lying, but there's a part of me that wants more than anything to believe her.

"I'm gonna turn in my application for that job," Dad says as he itches the back of his head.

Mom puts her hand on his shoulder.

"Hey stinky breath," I call out to Hawk, "you wanna wrestle, wrestle, wrestle?!" I grab for him and pull his leg down. He's got me pinned down in a second. I don't think I've ever felt this good being trampled.

My parents are talking to each other in low voices. They hold hands for a few seconds, their fingers laced together. There's a brief break as they move apart, but their fingers are still twisted together.

* * *

 _ **The poem Hazer tries to memorize is The Snowman by Wallace Stevens.**_

 _ **S.E. Hinton owns**_

 ** _I don't own any real life references._**

 ** _Thank you so much for reading!_**


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